A Difficult Enterprise
by Caracaos
Summary: The Tale of a greedy hero and a mad soldier! Let's hope the story is as good as it sounds. And I hope it sounds as good as I think it sounds. Anyways, finally updated. Criticism is definitely welcome the noncaustic type, of course. xP
1. Soldiers? What Soldiers?

_Same old copyright stuff. I do not own TESIV: Oblivion or any aspect of the lore or content associated with it. If I did... I wouldn't be writing this. I think.  
_

_--- _

_How do you measure Heroes? By the grandness of their heart? Or, perhaps, their marvelous skill. Myself, I base heroism, true, insurmountable heroism, solely on the length of the blade. It is said tha-_

"MARCUS! HERO MARCUS! THEY'RE FLOODING OUT OF THE GATE!'

Marcus Gerus snapped out of his momentary reverie. _Right. _He let his eyes wonder, a gormless expression on his face, for a few seconds before lighting up. _Ahh!_ He was here to assist some captain or the other, to shut some portal into a demonic world. There was mention of gold, he remembered happily.

_Oh. _He looked straight ahead of him. _That, _he considered, _is an Oblivion Gate. _He looked over his shoulder. _And that, _he thought as he grimaced, _Is the sight of forty armor-clad men a hundred yards behind an Oblivion Gate. _Verily, the Legionary platoon was cowering behind a low mound of dirt, one of thousands in Colovia. _One of them is even shivering._

With an indifferent shrug, the hero returned his gaze to the Gate. Clawed, vicious scamps, scaly clannfear, and ugly dremora, decked out in their dark, majestic armor, poured out in droves, already manoeuvring for an advantage against a demoralized enemy. Even now, some of the hideous humanoids were laughing - as best as can be accomplished when one's voice is the subject of an Argonian's joke.

_Why are they coughing... Oh well. _At that, the Hero dramatically added another indifferent shrug, and threw his arm back to grab his claymore - his hand passed through empty space, and Marcus panicked. _Not good, not good, definitely not good. _Quickly, he removed an ornamental silver dagger from his satchel. He sighed. _Not much of a hero today, though, am I? _

And so he ran. A sparkling dagger in one hand, the other conjuring up a pathetic excuse for a fireball, he ran. He threw the fireball at a scamp, which was unscathed, though thoroughly bewildered. Several dremora shook their heads. Marcus, off course, kept running, and before the daedra could react, he jumped into the Oblivion Gate - and passed right through.

Not many Kynval are trained in the art of being hit by nigh on four hundred pounds of man and armor, and so, our inept Hero crashed through, toppling on a dremora that began whimpering. A Churl, in fact.

The hero struggled to his feet, unaware of the incredible disbelief apparent on the faces of every daedra there. He smiled sheepishly. _Forgot AGAIN! Damn it all to Oblivion. Oh, right. _With that, the Hero stepped right into the portal. He jumped thrice, clapping his heels each time. This, apparently, failed to work, and the daedra began to mutter as best as their vocal boxes allowed.

_Fine. I suppose I ought do this the 'normal' way. _After a few seconds, the Hero stepped into the portal, and disappeared from the world of Nirn.

The daedra sighed. They then turned to the Legionairres, grinning, blood on their mind. A hundred yards away, several Legionairres wet themselves in their armor.

After a moment of deliberation by the crowded-together soldiers, a single, tall, built Imperial was pushed out.

"Uh... er... CHARGE!", he declared, in the singular voice possessed by all Imperial men.

The soldiers looked at each other.

"That's not what he was supposed to shout!"

"By Zenithar's Ass, It's retreat! Retreat, you fool!"

But the daedra advanced at impossible speeds, thus rendering the soldiers no option but to fight, if not for a dead Emperor or a derelict Empire, for their very lives. Wearily, they unsheathed their swords and advanced.

---

Fenus Calidia advanced ahead of the muttering, swearing band of troops. He was touched by Sheogorath, the milder ones would say. It would be more appropriate to say that the Daedric Lord consulted him from time to time. Regardless, the one thing better than a brave, skilled soldier is one who is barking mad, and Fenus was both, in his own special manner. He began running to the mass of creatures.

"Oh, s'wit!"

"Who gave him the standard!"

And surely, the standard bobbed frantically in the tepid, Colovian air, held at it's base by the man with the plan - Fenus Calidia.

"Gahh. We can't have our standard taken again!"

"For blood and glory!"

"Quiet, idiot!"

The captain of the platoon, the one who had called to the Hero earlier, sighed. He began to chase Fenus, muttering under his breath. The men, taking heart at the sign of their leader charging, charged too. And so, a battle began.

"Archers! Release arrows!"

The mass of men stopped for a moment, looking among each other. Archers? Who were the **archers**?

"Bloody... just attack!"

The group screamed vicious, bloodcurdling screams, advancing on the daedra. The two sides closed the distance quickly, and began fighting. All along the line, vicious contests of skill took place. A Dremora would strike from above, earning him a shield in the chest. Strike from below, and he earns himself a clumsy, tripped Legionairre. The clannfear began fighting amongst one another, as is the habit of counfoundingly simply animals. The scamps began running about the Imperial side, stealing helms and running off, cackling.

Fenus was battling with the standard. As one dremora approached him, it struck out, extending it's arm in a straight line upwards. Fenus leant back, resulting in him falling backwards. The dremora grinned, a wicked sense of satisfaction in his eyes. He aimed for Fenus' belly, and struck downwards - to be met by thick Legion armor. Funny that he hadn't considered that. As his eyes queried this strange sight, Fenus swung the Legion standard, that of a mermaid, about, catching the dremora in it's head. The dremora was knocked to the side, screaming insults in the daedric tongue. Fenus rushed over, slightly dazed from his fall, but, with a flourish, he sank the standard into the dremora's face.

Fenus then unsheathed his sword. The standard was heavy, and nothing would remove it. As he charged at another dremora, screaming unintelligibly, a mass of scamps scurried over to the standard and tried, unsuccessfully, to remove it from it's abode.

That accounted for the scamps. Now only the dremora were left.

Fenus ran to other dremora, attempting to strike at them, but simply watching as they were cut to pieces by miraculously revitalized legion. Fenus eventually sighted a lone bowman near the Gate, who was having a bad time of it, as Dremora archery equipment is ill-suited to hunting trees. Fenus charged this one, his sword pulled behind him, his free hand forming a shock spell, a maniacal glint in his eye. The bowman saw him, his eyes widening, and began to rush to the gate.

The soldier ran, but the bowman ran faster.

"BY STENDARR'S PRICKLY COCK, WILL YOU TURN AND FIGHT!", screamed Fenus.

The bowman scowled by way of a retort, and, finally being within leaping range of the Gate, leapt. He closed his eyes, savouring the warm feeling of home he was about to feel-WHAM.

No more Gate. Just a heavily armored Imperial, wielding a dagger, blood all over him, carrying... a Sigil Stone. Both the bowman and the returned Hero collapsed backwards, much to the Hero's chagrin. Marcus pushed him off, and just as he readied his dagger to strike, a Legionairre came from around a rock, plunging his sword into the dremora's heart.

Fenus screamed triumphantly into the air, and was joined by the remaining Imperials. He looked down at the Hero, who shrugged, and extended his hand, helping him up.

Marcus took the hand, and got up. He smiled. _Another day, another Gate.  
_

_---_

_Well, new story. It's supposedly my third, but I suffered writer's block on the first two. Anyways, read and review. Enjoy, too._


	2. A Most Charming City

"Keep the ale comin', lass!", the old man yelled over the shouts of merriment throughout the tavern.

"We-we're out of ale, commandant." The girl had good reason to worry. Drunk men were one thing, but if they couldn't stay that way... she remembered the last tavern that got burnt down.

"WOT?!", screamed the commandant, spilling the remainder of his drink down his shirt, to the laughter and approval of most of the patrons. "What kind of a cheap old ratty tavern doesn't stock no ale!" he exclaimed, to a roar of shouting.

"You drank most of it, commandant!", the maid said, fear creeping into her voice. "You and the rest of your company!"

"Well, boys," he said, looking around mockingly at his men, "It seems that if we can't get no ale, we'll have to find some way to keep us busy, eh?"

"EH!" shouted the patrons.

The commandant turned back to the maid, a malevolent glint in his eye, a grin playing upon his lips. He unsheathed his sword - fine, polished steel - and approached the maid, beckoning to her.

"Come o'er here, lass, don't be shy..." he muttered, still grinning. The maid backed up against the wall, horrified.

"Yo-you could have just asked.." she said, flustered.

"OH!" shouted the tavern, followed by whistles and catcalls.

"A foxy one, aren't ya?" the commandant said, as he began to lightly shake his sword.

"I'll..." she looked around frantically, "I'll burn the tavern down!", she shouted, grabbing a carrot. She looked at it stupidly for a moment, along with the rest of the tavern, and then dropped it, to be soon replaced with a lit taper.

"HA! Burn yer own tavern down, will ya? You've got a lion's heart! You'll make a fine amusement for the men!"

That was the last straw for the maid, she began to burn the tavern, starting with the bar, and then threw the still-lit taper into the crowd, which had been driven into a frenzy.

"Get her!" screamed the commandant, but to no avail - the men had started a brawl, allowing the wench to slip through the back.

The few respectful patrons in the tavern sighed, shared looks, or coughed, rising immediately so as to make as quick a departure as possible.

The brawl had escalated to the point where each man was hitting the first thing in his line of sight. Everyone of sound character having already left the establishment, the men themselves went out into the adjoining field to mercilessly beat on each other - the tavern now being completely aflame.

The sound of the fighting reached far, even to a lone rider on nearby road.

* * *

"God's blood", muttered Marcus, shaking his head. This was the second tavern on the Gold Road to be up in flames. It really was a mystery - the dreadful laxity of the Legions contributing in no small part to the secretive burning of popular establishments on well travelled roads.

All this meant was yet another stay in the wilds. The cloud cover was, of course, highly disconcerting, and the attack by wolves the previous night did nothing to better his mood, considering that there was no money involved.

Kvatch wasn't so far... but Kvatch meant having to deal with poor, dirty peasants shouting their boring tragedies to the heavens. Yes, okay, your entire city was burnt down, your families tortuously butchered, your livelihoods destroyed... but give a man a break, will you? It's not as if the Legions didn't bend over backwards trying to help rebuild your city.

In truth, actually bending over was a feat no Legionnaire had accomplished, so persisting as such in a metaphorical fashion was beyond the ability of the average, or even exceptional, Imperial troop. Marcus had not considered this at all, since the Legion paid well and promptly (all that money has to go somewhere, right?), and continued to ride on. He might even be able to catch up with the company he had fought amongst earlier. They would certainly treat him like a king. With this in mind, he cheerfully rode on to Kvatch, completely oblivious to the large pack of wolves who snapped at the heels of his horse - the same pack he failed to dispose of the night before. It didn't really pay, did it?

Marcus finally arrived at the Kvatch outskirts - cheerful as ever, except this time there were MORE dead corpses littering the main road. Just fantastic. Did these people simply die after expounding their pointless life stories? His horse trod over the corpses, eliciting groans from the apparently lifeless bodies. Strange.

As he passed on, one of the corpses he had ridden over shakily stood up, dusting itself off, as the rest of the group got up.

"Asshole.", muttered one of them in the voice typical of the undead. At that moment, the pursuing wolf pack came upon the zombies - the smell of blood drove them wild, but the decaying ichor was strangely absent from their senses.

"Oh, shi--" managed another zombie, before being pounced upon by the ferocious lupine. This was not a good day to be undead.

As Marcus' horse clip-clopped along, he briefly examined the twitching corpses surrounding him. Must be the weather, he thought - it was always the weather. That the disfigured bodies began to rise and shuffle after him escaped his attention. Fortunately, zombies being as slow as on old mare encumbered by a fat nobleman (or, perhaps, even slower, though that is quite debatable), Marcus and his horse were in no danger. That is, until a nearby corpse lifted it's head and bit the horse's hoof. The horse whinnied a little before kicking the head off the body - Marcus looked momentarily disgusted, before going back to staring at the trees.

Marcus finally reached the 'barricade' that had been set up during Kvatch's fall - they claimed it was to prevent the Daedra from spilling over into the rest of the Gold Road, but it was pretty apparent to anyone not suffering of blindness that many ordinary Tamrielites were refused passage. Something about 'being infected'. It didn't much concern him. He hadn't even gone into the gate - he just stood on the other side and made faces at the Daedra up at the wall. Of course, that was his intention - fortunately, the daedra on the other side were more dumbstruck to see a human with a pig snout on their side of the gate, so they were quickly cut down. The rest was basically how he did things on Nirn - hack, slash, and steal their womenfolk. Granted, Dremora women were not the most comely of women, but they had their charms, which ranged from minor scratching to eating one's jugular, but... that thought made Marcus shudder. Never again.

He finally reached the gates, flanked on both sides by Kvatch guards - the term uses very loosely, unless shovels were now the new broadswords. He approached one of them, who had a blank look in his eyes - similar to the other, in fact.

"How goes it, guard of Kvatch!" Marcus said, addressing the one on the right.

"CYRODIIL WILL FALL! NERO THE GREAT!" shouted the one on the left.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked Marcus, looking to the one on the left.

"FOR KING AND COUNTRY!" shouted the one on the right.

"Err..." Marcus looked to the right guard.

"WHO IS YOUR EMPEROR!" shouted lefty.

"What?" said Marcus, definitely puzzled, looking at lefty.

"PATRICK HENRY, YOU FOOL." shouted righty.

"Okay, that's it, you're both very dead." Marcus dismounted and, bringing his sword to bear, cut both soldiers down before they could mutter another inanity.

"What a strange place..." thought Marcus, discounting the undead bodies and generally decayed aspect of the city.

He wondered whether he ought to tie up his horse, but thought against it - It wasn't really his horse, anyways. Let's just say the Courier has one less horse... and one less courier! This thought caused him to cackle wildly to himself, resulting in him bumping into a shape in rags.

The shape fell to it's knees, arms extending upwards, and Marcus saw piercing blue eyes.

"Death has come! It has brought madness! Woe to all!" she cried.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very interesting and sad and emotional, now here, be off with you." He threw a wooden fork at her. Never knew when you needed a wooden fork.

She gazed at the wooden fork, at Marcus, the fork, and back at Marcus.

"The Harbinger of the end times!" she shouted, before swallowing the fork and running off to some dank corner to die of indigestion.

"Uh-huh", said Marcus, shrugging it off.

He approached the temple of Akatosh, it's spire blocking the way to the Count's keep. He hated having to go into churches - all that holiness was poisonous. He'd sooner cut his throat then start worshipping, he had told himself in his youth. Then again, he couldn't be too sure what he had said in his youth - A lifetime spanning three weeks had provided him with enough memories.

The interior of the chapel was a complete mess - blood and ichor spread all over the altars, the holy basins, the floors. He recognized a body on the floor and approached it.

"Hi Tierra! How goes it in Kvatch!" His continued recognition is a mystery, as Tierra's face appeared to have been removed. Her lack of response caused him to frown and give a noncommittal shrug, and he passed on, curtly nodding to the other respectfully mutilated corpses in the chapel.

It was, of course, still raining as he passed into the town square, which was also littered with fresh corpses. Useless Kvatchians, he thought, just dying. That's all they're good for, the bastards.

He walked through the Keep archway, and as he walked into the Keep courtyard, the iron gate fell with a clang, trapping him inside. He looked around, but saw no one, or, at least, no one of interest - meaning, he saw dangerous, attentive, horrifying corpses and dispensed with the notion of them doing harm to him.

He deftly evaded the doubtless immensely slow creatures and manoeuvred his way into the Keep, which was now profaned with Necromantic symbols and other assorted horrors. This vaguely reminded him of his last time in the Keep.

* * *

_"The count! The count! Why is he not with you!" shouted Savlian, already fearing the worst._

_"Er... oh, yeah... he got killed. He got killed good back in there."_

_"The daedra killed him?!"_

_That's a stupid question, thought Marcus. Then again, scamps don't often eat the ears of people who can resist them. I guess I shouldn't have run him through with the shortsword... he looked down at his sword sheepishly._

_"Uh, yes, you could say that they killed him quite good." Savlian looked at him, bewildered. "Killed him quite well." Savlian still looked horrified. "They.. manufactured a horrible physical state for his body, rendering it incapable of holding a soul?" Now Savlian looked at him as if he were crazy._

_"Right... anyways. The count! The count! He's dead?!"_

_"We've been over that... he's pretty dead." Before the captain looked at him again, he panicked and said, "I've got his ring! And everything...else he was wearing, too." _

_The Kvatch guards looked at him in disgust, but the ring caught Savlian's notice._

_"The ring! The ring! He who wears the ring is the count! Give it to me! For safe-keeping, of course." He added, a hesitant look in his eye._

_"Mhm. I.. uh, also noticed that the demons plundered his jewels. And gold. And the deed to County Kvatch. Also Imperial communiques."_

_Berich Inian, one of the guards Marcus had saved, looked surprised. "What use would daedra have for royal documents and deeds?"_

_"Maybe they want to make sure they aren't killed by their saviors," bit back Marcus venomously. Berich backed down, and Marcus softened a little. "They probably want to sell it to the Altmer, the high elves. I hear they're plotting revolution."_

_Everyone in the group looked suspiciously at the lone Altmer, Merandil, who blinked several times. How did the treacherous bastard know! I must deflect their suspicions._

_"Um, well," began Merandil, "Altmers have more character than that." He exclaimed proudly, ignorant of the multitude of more plausible excuses. However, the others accepted it._

_"Well," said Marcus, clearly uncomfortable. "I have a pack of deeds.. I mean beads... that need be delivered to an.. apothecary in Anvil. Toodles!" he said, walking off jauntily._

_"Wait a minute..." said Savlian, roused from his reverie. He looked at Marcus, prepared not to back down in the face of adversity._

_"You require a reward, Hero of Kvatch. Please, take my cuirass."_

_"Oh, well... it's not necessary. I was quite happy to assist..."_

_"I insist", said Savlian sternly. "No good deed goes unpunished."_

_"Well," said Marcus, shifting his weight. "I suppose I have to accept."_

_"Good man," said the Captain, pleased._

* * *

No good deed goes unpunished, Marcus mused. Now he was back in this pit of a city, trying to find shelter. They might even give him the Count's room...

That was when the first of the undead fell on him. Reacting by instinct, Marcus, in a single, fluid motion, unsheathed his sword and cut the zombie into pieces. More began to stumble towards him, but as they were scattered across the hall, Marcus made a job of jogging to each and then slaughtering them. This took him some time.

Eventually, all the undead were... well, immobilized, though still groaning. Marcus went behind the throne, through into the Count's quarters. In there, he discovered a group of cloaked, hooded figures, surrounding what appeared to be a half-naked balding man on an altar.

Marcus approached the strange sight, which was pulsating with light in rhythm to the chants that escaped the circle. He more closely saw that Savlian was on the altar - a knife through his chest. Not the best position to be. However, he was noticed by some of the circle, he hissed and looked up.

The entire circle broke and arranged in a loose semi-circle about him - nine evenly spaced cloaks.

"Why have you come to this place?" asked the centre figure in a sibilant voice, indicating at her vampiric nature.

"Oh," said Marcus, cheerfully, "I just need a place to stay. You don't mind if I camp out with you for a bit, do you? It's awfully cloudy outside."

"Fool!" exclaimed one of the cloaks. "We are the Hezelia! None shall suffer us our hospitality!".

"Hezelia? That's a ridiculous name." Marcus was close to giggling.

"Fool!" said another cloak, in that same hissing voice, "You alone have uttered our unholy name without being smitten by our dark goddess!"

"A dark goddess? My, isn't that something I've never heard of."

"Fool! We suffer no Aedric follower in our presence!"

"So you worship an evil deity", continued Marcus. "Seems like everyone's doing that nowadays. Were you just responding to peer pressure?"

They remained silent.

"Fool!", Marcus said in a brilliant imitation of their collective voice.

"Fool!" they all cried, and thus conjured up weapons of various sorts to bear upon Marcus.

Marcus sighed. How purposeless. He unsheathed his sword and threw himself in.

* * *

Marcus looted the bodies but found nothing. Purposeless, he thought again. Not even seven septims. He examined the body of Savlian, passed over the ring, and then extracted the knife. Silver, with an exquisite filligree. This one's a keeper. He wiped it on the emaciated corpse's skin, and pocketed it. He went into the Count's chambers, but observed it to be a complete mess - the linens torn, the pillows shredded. There was no staying here tonight.

Quickly, he made his way out of the castle, the courtyard, the square, and the city. He mounted his horse, and passed down, where he saw a number of people engaged in combat with wolves. Strange county, he thought.

The zombies had been attacked by the wolves, naturally. The wolves, of course, took upon themselves the burden of liberating the undead of their limbs, but the latter were recalcitrant, and insisted on using their now detached arms and legs as rudimentary clubs. Of course, hitting a wolf with a stick covered in what it smells as meat is never a rational idea, so a stalemate of sorts had developed. Marcus' horse whinnied again, passing the pathetic melee, and continued on past Kvatch. He might be able to make it to Skingrad, Marcus though, and see that lovely Orcish woman again.

* * *

Fenus was mumbling to himself - the first two taverns they had come across had been burnt to ashes, but, of course, lack of ale was too simple to explain Fenus' malady. His mother exclaimed he was touched by the Gods - His father exclaimed he was touched by the Daedra - his sister would exclaim, to any of the numerous lovers she had, that he was touched by his father. Regardless of his cause, Fenus was still a superlative fighter - that is, compared to the Legion standard, he knew which direction to hold his shield if he saw arrows coming his way. In other aspects of warfare, he was brutal, lacking finesse, though even the poorest military force in the world (Or it's retarded cousin, the Cyrodiliic Legions) recognized the value of a brute. The company captain had announced his intention to camp in Kvatch - Of course, no one heard him, because he was drowned out by the load groan the company would give every time the captain spoke. Regardless, they could only travel away from where they came, so to Kvatch they went.

As they approached Kvatch, the captain gasped - Kvatch was on fire! Kvatch was being attacked! He turned rapidly to his men, causing him to fall off his horse onto his ass, earning him a bout of laughter from the company. But he must warn them! He alerted his lieutenant, the poorly named Genitellius, to warn the men of the no doubt upcoming battle.

"Sir..."

"That's an order, Lieutenant!"

"Sir... Kvatch has always been on fire."

"Doesn't... doesn't the rain do something?"

Genitellius looked up into the sky, examining the clouds. "Not that I've ever seen, Sir."

"Right, well..." the captain sheepishly remounted his horse, and continued on.

After a few minutes, he heard the distinctive clip-clop of a horse's feet. Or a company of dremora, it didn't matter - he was hard of hearing. He unsheathed his sword and looked on hesitantly, but all he saw was a single mounted horse. As he approached, he recognized the rider - Hero Marcus, who had just helped them close an Oblivion Gate.

"Ahh, Hero! Good to see you out here!"

"Yes, indeed. Good to see me on the only road near our old destination."

"Well, yes.. what brings you here?"

"What, besides attacking an Oblivion gate on the coast which had no strategic value, when there are millions of them opening up on the roads?" Verily, one had just popped into existence next to them, and the Legionnaires bunched together, scared.

"Er, yes, besides.. that."

"I needed a place to stay."

"Kvatch is not suitable? Why is this?"

"Torn sheets."

"I see. Where do you intend to go now?"

"To Skingrad, maybe. The inns there are quite-"

"He was cut off by the sound of Fenus crying, "MURDERER!" and charging past the ranks, frightening them even further, if possible.

"Oh, bloody hell", exclaimed Marcus. "Not that idiot all over again."

The captain looked on, puzzled, as Marcus dismounted, and Fenus tackled him, smacking him ineffectually while whimpering.

Genitellius was, of course, appalled by this breach of conduct, and helped wrestle the insane Fenus off of Marcus, he began to contemptuously wipe his armor.

"MURDERER! HE KILLED THEM! HE KILLED THEM ALL!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." said Marcus haughtily.

"MY FAMILY, YOU BASTARD! WHORESON!"

Genitellius and the captain looked at each other. Fenus' family was very much alive. He must have been having a fit.

"Right... take him away, Lieutenant."

"Sir", said Genitellius curtly, as he force Fenus to the back of the line.

"So," said the Captain, fixing Marcus with his most lustrous, admiring gaze. "Care for some company?"

"No."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about the immense delay, I've had to start prepping for Uni. Hope to bring another one as soon as I can write more.**


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